


Knee-high by the Fourth of July

by Spylace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Steve Rogers, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Crossdressing, Cryogenics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Steve scared people while defending Bucky and the one time he put the fear of God into them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knee-high by the Fourth of July

1

It’s a little thing; it barely stings when Ben Greely from the main street accuses him of being a snitch. But apparently, Steve doesn’t think so as he throws his skinny body at the burly boy and gets a lucky strike across his face.

“You take that back!” He howls, flailing everywhere.

“Make me!”

Bewildered, Greely backs off instead of hitting back, looking a little like stray dogs after they’ve been doused with water. It’s hard to say who is more surprised, the bigger boy with his bloodied nose or Bucky who is fighting to hold his best friend back. He could take Greely in a fight but not when he has all his goons surrounding him. Bucky’s brain is working overtime and he swears he has smoke coming out of his ears as he tries to figure out the best plan of escape.

Momentarily, he mourns the fact that he never got to read the comics Danny Truman found behind Sunday church but the feeling passes when Greely and the other boys back away like crazy might be a catching thing. They are twelve and fourteen respectably and Steve is small, he will always be small barring secret government experiments his friend will stupidly enlist in the moment his back is turned, but he is the bravest kid Bucky has ever known.

They stand unmolested and in one piece behind the apartment block, Steve heaving as he calms down and Bucky, eyes wide open with astonishment. Maybe, just maybe, Bucky thinks, feeling hopelessly sappy and affectionate as Steve sinks to his feet, his head tucked between his knees. This is where everything starts—this is where Captain America begins.

2

The staircase rattles as Steve runs into the superintendent’s office, face pale and straw-colored hair sticking to his forehead. “He’s killing him!” He manages to shout before taking off again, adrenaline lending strength to his skinny limbs. Already, curious onlookers have gathered around door 301, wincing every so often at the enraged roars and breaking glass. But it’s midday and there is no one around who can pry George Barnes off of his young son, frighteningly still, unclear whether he was alive or dead.

Steve fervently hopes that it is the former. He needs it not to be the latter.

Steve storms in and out of his apartment past the soft, calico swish of his mother’s dress, his father’s rifle in his arms. The super hangs back uselessly, wringing his hands and repeating that he has called the police in his plaintive voice. But they all know the police won’t make it in time to save Bucky, they know the drill. The police will arrive too late.

Ted Hummel’s mother faints when she sees the gun and her old man mutters “better know what you’re doing son” as he catches her from falling. The rest of the neighbors stand back a respectful distance as he shoots them all a furious look with a healthy dose of disappointment thrown in for standing back when his friend is hurting, breaking bones impossibly loud over the stilted platitudes.

The last time he was at Bucky’s house was when his mother died and the difference between his memory and the reality is jarring enough to frighten him back into the world outside. The framed pictures he once admired are gone, the thick duvet they made forts out of heaped in the corner dusty with neglect. The place looks badly kempt and there are empty bottles everywhere. He thinks in despair what Mrs. Barnes would have would have thought had she been alive today and feels badly for never noticing what was going on.

Steve doesn’t even realize what he has stumbled upon until he hears Bucky rasp—“ _Steve?_ ” and his voice, absent before, is enough to make his father raise his head and glare at the strange interloper in his home, eyes bloodshot and deranged from the drink, neck bulging as he swings around to face him instead. His arms shake and his knees tremble as he swallows, but not in fear, not when Bucky lies at his father’s feet like the thick duvet, his arm at an odd angle and face a mass of colorful bruises.

In a tone braver than he is Steve demands, “Let him go.”

Mr. Barnes laughs, kicking Bucky in the ribs as he swaggers forward, eyes on the rifle and the quavering shoulders of the boy behind it. Steve remembers a time when Bucky’s father taught them how to whistle using blades of grass, invite him for dinner when his mother felt poorly and allowed him to stay when his father died. He remembers the man lost in his grief when his wife died and thanked him for the casserole his mother made before putting it away in the fridge of hundreds of similar-looking casseroles and the memory is dissociative enough to keep him still, keep him standing and keep the man at bay from killing Bucky.

“Back away from him or I’ll shoot.”

And there must have been something in his eyes, his voice, and the set of his face because the rage fades from the man’s face and he backs away with his hands raised half-heartedly. Bucky lets out a low whimper and he almost shoots. The standoff lasts until the authorities arrive.

After, Bucky yells at him “You stupid, _stupid_ idiot!” squirming out of his mom’s grip, tearing open his cuts and bruises. “What were you thinking?! He could have killed you!!”

“Yeah well” Steve quips, shivering now that the adrenaline’s worn off but can’t quite help the broad grin across his face. “I had him on the ropes.”

Bucky blinks at him mouth agape, eyes barely visible now that both are swelling shut. The other boy pulls him into a hug, earning a sharp reprimand as he ruins the stitches and bleeds all over his best friend. Steve sighs and relaxes into the warm embrace. Bucky laughs, brittle and sharp, and admits quietly, “Guess you did.”

3

It is a hard journey. Most took turns riding the vehicles they liberated, rallying little enough strength to march into camp and just to stare at everyone’s faces. They are all exhausted but serious injuries are far and few in between. They were the ones who insisted on fighting with guns and bullets; Hydra used something even Howard Stark hadn’t seen before.

So it’s mostly dehydration and fatigue, sprained and broken limbs here and there from their captor’s liberal abuse. All are given care, all except Bucky who receives a shot of Benzedrine before being shuffled into the command tent. Colonel Philips looks at him pityingly but does not argue when other officers say they need to pick his brains while it’s fresh.

Fresh from what? Steve wants to shout, anguished at how Bucky hunches over and sits down without a fight, only the skin to skin contact of his knuckles bouncing off the inside of his wrist holding him back and only just. Bucky tiredly recounts the details of his captivity and his experiences in his back room, hazy because he was drugged to his eyeballs and he looks to Steve every so often for confirmation on the things he saw, the locations of the maps, the equipment Hydra possessed and the personnel, the pauses growing longer and longer between each sentence.

Agent Carter purses her red lips like she would like to suggest a break but can’t because it would make her seem weak in a room of keen-eyed men who would just as eagerly tear her apart as they would the Nazis so it’s up to Steve to put his metaphoric foot down when a sallow-faced lieutenant, judging by the bars on his shoulder, accuses Bucky of defecting to save his own skin.

Bucky wilts in his chair, denying the rapid-fire questions, looking alone and scared but alternatively irate when he feels Steve literally vibrating out of his chair on his behalf. There is a triumphant gleam in the lieutenant’s eyes as though this is a viable admission of guilt. But the other officers look wearied and uncomfortable, even Major Curtis, a consummate soldier, looks disapproving of crucifying a man just returned from battle.

All eyes are drawn to him as Steve stands up, his chair pushed back and his palms planted squarely across the table. Even Bucky lifts his head feebly, whatever the nurses gave him unable to hold off the tide of withdrawal from the regiment of drugs Hydra forced upon him. Steve’s mother was a nurse, he recognizes the symptoms. He is in a room full of officers but somehow, he cannot bring himself to care.

“Gentlemen, I think we need a break.”

The lieutenant protests scornfully—what does a chorus girl know about strategy? Steve barely keeps himself from decking the other man and enunciates clearly that Sergeant Barnes needs immediate medical attention. The other man bristles and announces that he is taking Bucky in for questioning. No one looks happy, least of all Bucky who is torn between annoyance at Steve for treating him like a damsel in distress and at the others for not letting him sleep for a hundred years.

Steve is still not used to being big. When he leans forward, the lieutenant pales and shrinks in his shadow. He turns around and at Colonel Philips who is the only one aside from Peggy Carter who has earned his respect. “Permission to take Sargent Barnes to the medical tent sir?”

Colonel Philips nods. “Permission granted.”

The others hem and haw and throw him nervous glances before wrapping up. Bucky grumbles an obligatory ‘idiot’ before standing.

4

But of course, that is not the end of it as Bucky lies down on a makeshift bed with his arm out, distinctly not looking at anyone or anything in particular as his inner elbow is revealed, puckered black like a gangrenous limb. The nurses share a worried look as they wipe disinfectant across the needle marks, relieved when they cut the layer of skin and find a bounty of red beneath.

Steve has to look away at this point. His mother was a nurse and he should be used to it from the scrapes they got into when they were young. But split knuckles and chipped teeth are childish and innocent things. Bucky has been through torture and he has to step outside for a moment, blinking back the heat and taking mouthfuls of muggy air to clear his head. Then the screams start, nurses shrieking as metal trays clatter to the ground. A doctor orders an orderly to keep someone still and Steve bursts back into the tent, a syringe shattering beneath one heel with a satisfying crunch.

Everyone in the crowded tent is sitting up and trying to see what is going on and Bucky’s bed is empty. It’s Bucky who is trying to wedge himself between the supplies and the emergency generator. An orderly approaches him brusquely with a needle in one hand. Eyes rolling in fright, Bucky kicks out catching him solidly beneath his chin. A nurse screams when the orderly falls over backwards unconscious. Her friend leads her outside, trying to calm her down. Another ushers the patients out one by one, calling for help from the men standing guard outside.

“Oh Buck” Steve murmurs when he hears the stuttered name and the familiar serial number. Bucky rocks back and forth in the confining space, head pressed against the generator and eyes half hooded as though trying to sleep. He doesn’t react when Steve kneels down in front of him, nodding as the nurses pull the orderly away.

A doctor sneaks up from behind and Bucky shouts, “Watch out!” pushing him down, lashing out at the offending person with teeth drawn in a feral snarl. Steve falls to his stomach, quickly rolling over onto his back. The doctor cowers before the traumatized man, glasses askew and hands reaching out for whatever sharp or blunt object he can throw at him. It buys enough time for other men to grab hold of him and pin him down.

Steve doesn’t recognize them; they must have been from the other regiments, the ones that don’t know about what happened to Bucky and the backroom. They grab hold of his limbs, pushing his face down on the dirt. But Bucky’s been _trained_. Steve doesn’t know the full extent of that training, Bucky never said in the arduous two-day journey back to base camp but he’s heard men whisper in respectful tones that only Barnes could have survived the trials of the backroom.

He has one of the men on his knees screaming from a dislocated shoulder before another gets an arm around his throat, strangling him until his face turns blue.

“That’s enough!” Steve shouts, throwing the soldier back into an empty bed. The man objects to the rough handling until he sees the enraged look on his face and swiftly scrambles away. Steve catches Bucky before he sprints out of the tent, falling with him and curling around him protectively as his struggles die down.

The doctor creeps up on them with another needle and he sends him away with a look of disapproval. “Shh, Buck, Bucky, you’re safe.”

Some of the tension fades when Bucky hears his voice, eyes tracking everyone and everything inside the ruined tent.

“Steve?” Bucky asks hoarsely, his voice cracked and ruined beyond recognisability. Steve fights down bile and grief as he squeezes, resting his forehead against the nape of his skin.

“I’m here.”

“Thought I was back there, in the lab. Thought I dreamed you up.”

“I’m real.”

“Yeah” Bucky agrees drowsily. “That’s what you usually say.”

Peggy approaches and Steve gives her a hard look which she returns with equal enmity that takes him aback before he offers her a sheepish smile as truce. He rolls Bucky over so that they are face to face. Bucky snorts and kicks a little as though they were in Brooklyn in winter, sharing a bed because the boiler’s broken down again.

It feels like betrayal when the needle enters his throat.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, looking lost.

“I’m here.” Steve answers and stays there until he falls asleep.

5

“I am a man.” Bucky emphasizes vehemently, the soft blue of his skirt bringing out the colors in his eyes. Steve ducks his head a little and blushes for a bit. “Can’t we find someone else? An actual dame maybe?”

“Come on Buck,” Steve coaxes, holding out an elbow for his friend to take. “We don’t have anyone we can trust.” The other man gives him a stink eye before deigning to put a hand on his arm, already biting furiously at his painted lips which colors it far better than the borrowed ‘cherry red’.

“Agent Carter?” He tries desperately and Steve merely raises an eyebrow at what he thinks of the idea. “Morita? Falsworth? Dernier? Jones? Dugan?” and of course, these ideas have already been shot down by the respective commandos: too Japanese, too British, too French, Black, and no one wanted to think about the logistical nightmare that was Dugan in a dress. “Where did they even find all this?” Bucky hissed with a rictus of a smile when the doorman graced him with a nod before letting them in. “I’m wearing a corset pal, I can barely—“ Steve hitches his breath at the thought. Bucky doesn’t notice. “These things don’t come cheap.”

“Agent Carter might have helped.” He answers what he hopes is a casual voice. “A little.”

Bucky lets out a sound that can only be the stifled rage of a man played and played well.

“Would you relax?” Steve asks sideways before the blood flow to his hand is pinched off. “We’re supposed to be a distraction.”

“A drink” Bucky snorts grimly. “I need a drink.”

Steve wanders a bit while Bucky checks out what tables of occupied France have to offer. Had he been a proper gentleman, he would have stuck close by his friend’s side. But he has known Bucky all his life and knows that he can take care of himself. He forgets that the same rules don’t reply when the said best friend is disguised as a woman.

Thankfully, Steve’s attention from Bucky never strays too long, the same as how Bucky is intuitively attuned to his whereabouts, locating him unfailingly in alleyways when he is being beaten up by others. But by the time he finds Bucky who has a glass of wine in his gloved hand, he has managed to attract the attentions of an amorous boor, already drunk by the looks of him, who will not take ‘no’ for an answer.

Normally, Bucky’s unconvincing falsetto might have been off-putting but the man’s been rebuffed enough times tonight to seize a chance when he sees it and a young woman at a bar without a chaperone is a tempting target. Also, Bucky in drag is a stunner and no man is likely to pay attention to the lower tenor when there are other things to stare at instead.

Bucky pushes the man away as ladylike as he can manage, mindful of his disguise in the light of Steve’s glaring dereliction of his duties. He lets out a titling parody of laughter when the man puts a hand on his thighs, the blue fabric of his dress and the coffee-colored stockings beneath. Steve doesn’t know where Peggy found those; war efforts have reduced even the most ardent of society women to draw lines across their legs instead. But it shows off Bucky’s legs nicely, the muscled calves and slim ankles making Bucky seem less like a blushing girl and an actual woman.

But Steve also knows what those legs are capable of and he sees the murderous gleam in his best friend’s eyes so he quickly intervenes by punching the man first, hiding Bucky behind his back like he is a damsel in need of rescue. Later, he will get hell for it from his friend in the midst of running and chucking heels for practicality, but for now, Bucky stands behind him, fist clenched around his back, blushing hard from anger and embarrassment passed off as shyness.

The man stumbles to his feet, holding the side of his jaw and shouting angry slurs in their direction. But he blanches as Steve looms over him, shoulders squared. Everyone looks over at them in interest, several of the man’s friends rushing forward to carry him away.

 _Well_ , Bucky thinks sardonically, at least their mission is a critical success.

“Thank you kindly sir for keeping me company.” He says in the haughty tone of a society girl. “But as you can see, my fiancé is here.” Steve chokes a little at his new designation. Bucky leans his head against his shoulder, batting his eyes. “And he does not like to share.”

The man’s friends make profuse apologies before hauling away, looking back every so often to see that the pretty girl’s _fiancé_ isn’t stalking after them. Bucky sighs, “What the hell took you so long Rogers?” and Steve takes them to the dance floor, stomping all over the other man’s feet. Once they’ve found a working rhythm he demands, “What are you doing?”

“Doing my job.”

“By breaking my toes?”

Steve spins him around.

“No you jerk, everyone’s looking at you.”

Bucky looks at him oddly. “They’re looking at you, you big lug.” He waves a hand as though to denote his newfound tallness.

Steve laughs. “Smile Buck, you’re the prettiest dame at the ball.”

“Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

They dance like they’ve practiced at their loft many times before. Had Bucky been a real dame, one he hasn’t known all his life, he might have feigned ignorance. He could still feign ignorance and no one would know from the way Bucky winces every time he steps on the other man’s feet. This is better. They don’t kiss when the music ends but Bucky puts his nose against the curve of his jaw and sighs as though in a swoon. 

+1

Stark promises all of SHIELD’s dirty laundry on a silver plate. Steve can’t wait. He goes off exploring on his own. On the Helicarrier, he finds remnants of HYDRA technology mass produced. Somehow it’s not as shocking as it should have been.

After Loki’s been defeated, taken into custody and the Tesseract locked away, Stark comes up to him solemn with an honest to god, paper file and says “I think, you should see this.”

The brief levity following their shawarma lunch evaporates. He opens the file. It is titled PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER.

It reads like a horror novella. Everything from human experimentation to assassinations is outlined in black. The most heartbreaking of all are the two photos attached both of the same man. In one, the man stares off into the distance as though talking to someone else. The other has him asleep, hair frosted with ice.

Steve’s heart lurches when he recognizes the man in full color and details. His hands clench reflexively, crumpling the file. This is his fault. He is the one who gave his life for this—this _abomination_.

He thought he was saving the world and all this time they had Bucky gathering dust like he is no more than an antique weapon or HYDRA technology.

Blood rushes to his head. He can’t think.

“Where is he?”

“Cap” Stark looks pained. “I’m the last person to preach self-restraint but this, taking on SHIELD by yourself? It’s insane.”

“ _I don’t care._ ”

Stark looks taken aback at the tone of his voice. Steve doesn’t know why he is surprised. He burned a HYDRA base to the ground for what they did to Bucky. Did he really think SHIELD would be any different?

He pushes people out of the way left and right once he arrives at the Triskelion. Fury is not here. Most likely, he is safely ensconced in his office taking bets on how far America’s golden son will fall.

Others, warned of his arrival, have set up a perimeter around the basement level. They ask him to stand down; there is a perfectly good explanation.

Nothing can explain Bucky.

“Captain” Agent Rumlow nods in acknowledgement, his men falling in a line behind him. He takes out his escrima sticks and tap them together like they have an arc reactor inside them each. Steve grits his teeth at the interruption. “Nothing personal.”

“Feels personal to me.”

The passage is too narrow for his shield but not his gun. Too many people forget that he was a soldier—still is a soldier. In war, there are things he did he wishes he hadn’t done. Bucky was always there to share the burden, the north to Steve’s weighted compass.

“Nothing personal” Steve grunts as he twists the other man’s arm behind his back. Rumlow lets out a shout of pain. “Take me to him.”

Steve is introduced to a room with its inhabitants long fled. There is surgical equipment everywhere and an ominous-looking chair bolted in the middle. Something about it curdles his insides. It gives him a sense that something died there and nobody went to take a second look. He swallows when he sees the restraints hanging loosely off the arms and legs.

Rumlow shoots him a depreciating look “This way Cap.”

The crown jewel of Triskelion’s armory is in a cryochamber in the second room. There is a carton of half-eaten ice cream on the floor and Steve feels repulsed at the nonchalance. He nudges Rumlow forward with the butt of his gun until he can peer inside the small window and breathes.

His breath comes out as a fog. “Get him out of there.”

The other man narrows his eyes.

“You have no idea do you? Save yourself the heartache Captain, they wipe him down after every mission. This isn’t the guy you’re looking for.”

Steve digs the gun in a little harder.

“You don’t know that.” He says quietly. “You don’t know him. Get it open or God help me I’ll find someone who will.”

Bucky spills out, quiet like stillbirth.

His breath hitches when he touches the cold skin. He turns him over, gun still trained on Rumlow as he shakes Bucky awake.

“Hey” Steve says when the bruised eyes pry open.

Bucky frowns up at him, looking a little lost.

“I know you.” He rasps, lying motionless in his arms.

Steve’s face breaks out in to a smile. “Yeah, you do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the repost of story I wrote when I went by a different name on AO3. The ending's been changed since CA:WS left us crushed and defeated, bleeding out in feelings at its cruel, cruel feet so it's canon-compliant. Hope it was enjoyable as last time :)
> 
> [Part of my ongoing campaign to clean out my thumb drive]


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